


H & C, '39

by blackeyedblonde



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Canon Universe, Crying, First Time, Getting Together, Hank POV, Lake House Setting, Light Wireplay, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Child Death, Pet Names, Porn with Feelings, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Power Outage, Storms, Tenderness, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-10-20 20:03:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20681141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/pseuds/blackeyedblonde
Summary: “Ohshit,” Hank says, jaw hanging open. He hadn’t meant to swear first thing but it startled out of him like a spooked bird. “What the hell are you doing here, Con?”Connor’s eyes widen almost comically as he takes a step back, LED still flaring scarlet. For a moment he looks like he’s forgotten where he is, mouth moving even though sound isn’t coming out. “Lieutenant...?” he asks. Slowly, the light at his temple starts circling yellow, and he looks up to meet Hank’s eye with confusion spelled clear across his face. “There was only a 3.2% probability we’d somehow both book rooms at the same bed & breakfast on Lake Portage.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Jesus, I've been on a roll this week! This fic was written well over a month ago and originally posted elsewhere for ko-fi patrons, but I've ultimately decided to archive it here for everybody to enjoy. I worked way too hard to let it slip through the cracks into internet obscurity, lol. 
> 
> This is actually the first canon-verse "getting together" fic I've ever written, but a lot of the details within were voted on by my twitter pals in a series of polls, if that helps explain the literal sexcapade Hank and Connor go through. They both do some giving/receiving of oral sex and fingering; Hank's fingering scene has a lot more fireworks than Connor's does, he's definitely the star of that show. They also engage in some pretty tender PIV sex and super light wireplay. It's all extremely soft, as you'd expect from me. 
> 
> S/O to both Mo and Noora for the beta and peer review, you guys are awesome ❤

  
  
Those first six months after the revolution fly by faster than Hank can seem to catch or count them. The city comes out of lockdown, tentatively at first, like a burrowing animal poking its nose out of its den after winter, and Congress eventually decides that androids really maybe _are_ people after all, or at least something close to it. Hank’s suspension is lifted and Connor says he wants to come back, truly, but only if he can work full-time as Hank’s partner.

That part, at least, seems to mend itself.

A lot of shit changes, Hank thinks, but so much of it stays the same. They’d caught a bad one a couple days ago—dead kid. Seven years old. Little boy with dark curls and freckles, his glasses broken on the floor not too far from the body. There’s a good chance Hank might’ve gone home and cleaned his mouth out with his revolver that night if things were different. If Connor hadn’t showed up after work, temple flickering yellow, and gently pushed his way inside the house. Their house? It didn’t feel like just-Hank’s house anymore, even if Connor rented a little apartment closer to the station.

They didn’t say much, but turns out sitting in companionable silence while some shitty old movie plays on the tube is better than drinking yourself into a stupor or—worse. Connor even ordered pizza from Hank’s favorite joint down the street without being asked, and although he didn’t have much of an appetite he’d choked down a slice anyway because it was important to do things like that for the good people in your life, or so his therapist says. Hank’s doing better, he swears he fucking is, but sometimes shit hits too close to home. One of his healing nerves held too close to the flame and scorched raw all over again.

Connor knew—but then again, Connor seems to know everything.

The little boy’s name had been Marley. Like the singer. Or worse yet, like that goddamn dead dog movie Hank watched once and then never again.

Eight days after they saw the body for the first time, Hank’s busy staring at his blank terminal screen to kill the last hour of his shift when Fowler calls him into the big office. He doesn’t even hear the first address—a short but friendly enough, “Hank? A moment.”—until the second one follows a few long seconds later, this time loud enough that it booms across the bullpen and draws some stares from the less-seasoned officers. “Lieutenant Anderson, in my office _please._”

The first thing Hank sees when he looks up is the scarlet circle at Connor’s temple, flaring there in some underlying stress signal even while he ostensibly tries to focus on the screen in front of him. Their eyes briefly meet while Hank stands, his chair rolling backwards across the tile, but Connor’s expression gives nothing away beyond the slightest furrow on his forehead. It’s been there in some omnipresent crease since that first night they caught the bad case, and Hank’s had to stop himself more than once from reaching out to swipe a thumb over it, like Connor’s expression is a dimple he can smooth out of wet clay.

Some kind of steep fucking metaphor in all that, Hank thinks as he sighs and walks toward Fowler’s office. Man was supposedly made from the dust of the earth—even men who were built rather than born. 

“Sorry, Jeff,” Hank says once he closes the door behind him and sinks down into one of the empty chairs across from Fowler’s desk. “Kinda…well. Just had a lot of shit on my mind here lately.”

“That’s what I’m worried about, Hank,” Fowler says without pause, leaning back in his chair to watch his star Lieutenant. He looks tired himself, but now that they’re alone his hardass Captain’s tone softens some into that of an old friend. “I know the Shepherd case hasn’t been the easiest.”

Hank’s eyes immediately stray to the brass plaques and awards on the wall behind Fowler’s desk. He clears his throat and rolls one shoulder, suddenly very much interested in not having this conversation right now. “Cases with kids are never easy for anybody,” he says at last. “You know that.”

“I do,” Fowler says, steepling his fingers over his stomach. “But I think you and Connor have made more than enough progress this week, and we’re still waiting on a couple people to come in and give statements before we can really move forward. Need that warrant on the uncle’s place, too.”

Fowler’s dark eyes linger at the edge of Hank’s face, so heavy he can feel them. Concerned more than critical, and maybe that makes Hank all the more uneasy. “Why are you telling me what I already know, Jeff?” he asks, gruff but quiet.

“Because I’m putting you in for some time off,” Fowler says, raising his voice to cut back in over Hank when his mouth drops open to pitch an argument he’s too tired to have. “It isn’t a question, and I’ve already input the PTO request through the system myself. When you clock out this afternoon I don’t want to see you within two blocks of the station until Monday.”

Hank’s jaw shuts with a sharp click, then opens again before it hangs like it’s on a loose hinge. He feels—well. So fucking exhausted it nearly makes tears prickle behind his eyes, but that’s beside the point.

“Where the hell am I supposed to go?” he rasps. Back home to drink himself to sleep every night with only Sumo and his TV for company? Perfect. A five-star weekend getaway.

“I don’t care where you go, Hank,” Jeff says with a sigh. “Go home, fly to Hawaii, jog down to the goddamn bus depot and hitch a Greyhound to Timbuktu for the weekend, for all I care. Just try to relax and clear your head before you come back next week, alright? That’s all I’m asking here.”

Hank bristles, still not ready to relent. “And Connor?” he says, throwing an obvious hand out toward the android sitting at his terminal across from Hank’s desk. Anybody looking into the Captain’s office would know exactly who and what he was talking about. “What is my partner going to do for half a week while I’m fucked off in Margaritaville or wherever it is you want me to go?”

“Connor’s also agreed to take some time away,” Jeff says airily, though the tilt of his eyebrows suggests he’s surprised Hank hadn’t caught wind of this yet. “Maybe you two can fuck off somewhere together if you’re really that worried about his whereabouts while you’re gone.”

Hank snorts and stands from his chair. “Connor’s plenty fuckin’ capable of occupying himself,” he says, waving Jeff off, and then feels a pang of guilt crawl up his throat when he hears his own words echo through the office. “He’s—he’s a good kid, and a capable detective, but I don’t need him jammed up my ass every second of every day.”

Fowler’s eyebrows stay arched in that peculiar way and Hank wonders why his face feels so hot all of a sudden.

“There’s nice place up by Portage Lake, bed and breakfast type thing,” Fowler offers through the silence between them. “Celia and I spent a few days there last summer. It’s quiet by the water, nice. Main selling point is that the owners keep to themselves unless you really get to needing something.”

Hank’s never been much of one for lakeside retreats and wouldn’t have pegged Fowler for them, either, but the least he can do for an old friend is nod and pretend to consider it. “I’ll take a look,” he mumbles, already on his way out the door.

“Take care, Hank,” Fowler’s voice trails behind him until the glass door whooshes back into place. Hank trudges back over to his desk and drops into the chair, wheels rolling back across the floor as he reaches up to press the heels of his hands into both eyes.

He can feel Connor watching him without even looking up to check. “Bet a million dollars you’re boring two holes into the side of my head right now,” Hank mumbles, still watching abstract bursts of color dance along the backs of his eyelids. When he looks up, Connor’s still staring at him with the light at his temple steadily circling yellow.

“See,” Hank says with a snort. “How’d I know?”

“Maybe your predictability functions are more finely tuned than usual today, Lieutenant,” Connor says, just on this side of sounding dry as a bone. He looks more concerned than annoyed with Hank’s sass, though. “What did Captain Fowler have to say?”

Hank studies Connor over the top of their shared terminal wall and works his jaw around the truth before he can spit it out. “Seems like we’re both taking some unexpected time off this weekend,” he says quietly so nobody else nearby can hear, and then his eyes narrow a fraction. “You didn’t put Jeff up to that, did you?”

“No,” Connor says quickly, and then his LED flashes between red and back to yellow, expression gone modest. “Well, _maybe_. I only suggested that some time off to decompress may be beneficial, and he agreed.”

“Damn it, Connor,” Hank sighs, slumping forward on his elbows. He pinches the bridge of his nose and wonders if it’ll help the headache he’s got coming from a mile away. “What am I?—shit.” He can’t even say it aloud again. _What the fuck am I supposed to do for three days? _“It’s not like I had enough warning to make any real plans, y’know. Unlike some folks I don’t have my own personal travel agent built into my brain.”

“Neither do I,” Connor says. He looks like he’s about to open his mouth again but then Hank flicks his terminal screen off and grabs his coat, standing abruptly. It won’t do him any good to look at Connor’s sad brown puppy eyes, so he doesn’t, even if every cell in his shitty old body is screaming he should.

“I’m clearing out of this joint,” Hank says gruffly, shrugging into his jacket and grabbing his keys from the drawer. The line of his throat works in place and he pauses for a moment, just long enough to drop his gaze into Connor’s lap. “Get some rest, alright? However you can. We’ve got to hit the ground running on Monday.”

If Hank had glanced at Connor’s face he’d have caught the tiniest slip of a smile, sad and sweet all at once. A man resigned to accepting something lukewarm because it was all he figured he’d ever get. And what a shame, really—Hank knew that feeling all too well.

“You too, Hank,” Connor says this time, letting out the smallest sigh as his eyes waver back to his terminal screen. “I’ll see you next week.”

Hank nods, but as he turns and walks out he can feel Connor watching him go the whole way. It wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks, if only he could pin down the real reason _why_. His own truths claw around the back of his mind night and day like critters in the attic, but Hank will probably never know what’s going on in that supercomputer brain Connor’s got running in the room upstairs.

Maybe, he muses as he steps into the elevator and heads down to the lobby, a few days apart will do them some good.

  
  
  


Back at home, already through a beer and a half but still sitting on the couch in his shoes and work clothes, it takes Hank about an hour before he sighs and reaches for his tablet. For whatever fucking reason, Jeff’s words stick like flypaper to the inner side of his skull and won’t leave him alone. Hank’s no stranger to local sights and haunts as somebody who’s been up and down the state of Michigan more times than he can count, and maybe that’s the only reason he remembers the Captain’s suggestion about Portage Lake at all.

As luck would have it, the first bed and breakfast he pulls up has full open vacancy save for one other booked room at the opposite side of the lake house. The owners live in a separate cottage on the property and even if the room itself looks a little dated around the edges, there’s hot water, AC, a mini fridge, and high speed Wi-Fi. Modern man’s true necessities.

“What do you think, old boy?” Hank murmurs, dropping a hand down to where Sumo’s slumped between the couch and the coffee table under Hank’s legs. “You think you can keep it together for the weekend if I take a trip? I’ll call Ben and you can go roughhouse with Marcy.”

At the mere mention of Ben’s black lab, Sumo’s ears and eyes perk up. He raises his head, fluffy tail already thumping on the floor, and lets out a low _whuf_.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Hank mumbles, fidgeting with his reading glasses while his hand hovers over the tablet screen, indecisive. There’s no real reason _not_ to take a trip, and it’s not like he can think of anywhere better he’d rather go. Not like he’s going to fly down to Florida on a solo trek and carry his decrepit old ass through Disney World anytime soon. The mere thought makes a bead of sweat gather between Hank’s shoulder blades, his shirt and jacket gone stifling all of a sudden while Sumo gets up and wriggles around his legs.

Yeah, some solitude would be nice. Just a few days—not long enough for anybody else around the bullpen to get too suspicious or start passing around rumors that ol’ Loony Lieutenant Anderson had finally gotten carted off to the bughouse. Something simple, quiet. Easy on his brain and his bones.

Plus, with Sumo’s building excitement about seeing Marcy, Hank figures it’s a done deal. He books his room on the lake and idly scrolls through a few of the property photos, skirting over bedrooms painted pale blue and minty green, white linens, an old dock jutting out into the water right there on the brink of sunset. He looks at them but doesn’t really see, mind busy chewing on something else.

Hank hopes Connor has something half-decent to keep him occupied over the long weekend. Thinks about texting him and immediately dashes that idea against the rocks. Whatever the fuck a brainiac android does in his spare time isn’t really his business—they spend enough time together at work as it is, and Hank doesn’t want to infringe on whatever’s left. Connor has friends, he knows, and a couple tropical fish he named highbrow stuff like Heathrow and D’Artagnan. He probably has some hobbies, too, and Hank suddenly feels like the world’s shittiest friend for not knowing more about them.

With a tired sigh, he makes a mental post-it note to try and ask sometime, and then reaches for his phone to call Ben about keeping Sumo for a few days.  
  
  


* * *  
  


The drive up north is nice this time of year, all the world right there on the cusp between spring and summer. The vacationers still aren’t out in full force and most of the inns have only just opened back up for the season after the last of the cold snaps have finally worn off. It’s still cool enough for a long-sleeved shirt, though, and Hank rolls down his window to breathe in the damp, nostalgic smell of nature rolling off the hardwood trees and the soil as he closes in on the shore of Lake Michigan.

He’s only packed one small bag and carried along a single six-pack for the journey. Coming up here to drink away his worries had been tempting, but as Hank had stood in the beer cooler back in Detroit proper with a deep crease drawn between his brows, Connor’s face had come to mind and he’d let the glass door swing shut with only one sixer in hand. Fucking pitiful, really, but it’d been enough to make him walk stiff-legged up to the register and pay without going back for more.

Was that cowardice to commit, progress, or something else altogether? Damned if Hank knows. Funny thing is, Connor could probably tell him.

He turns his car down a narrow dirt lane shaded by young birch trees and gets his first glimpse of the water. Portage Lake is a little inlet drawn off the mother lake, fed even more by a river to the north, and shines like blue crystal in the mid-morning sunlight. The groundskeeper cottage is further away from the road, nestled between two tall pines. Other than their practically-antique Chevy there aren’t any other cars to be seen on the property.

The owners had sent him a door code along with the address and room rental information after receiving an electronic payment, and Hank pulls the email up on his phone before taking his bag in hand and stepping up on the wraparound porch. It’s quiet out here, almost eerily so, but he supposes he’ll at least get what he paid for. There aren’t any signs of the second guest with a room booked so he simply keys in the code and lets himself inside, doing a cursory sweep downstairs out of forced habit before he takes the steps up to the second floor.

His bedroom is at a corner of the house overlooking the lake, bright and crisp with two big windows. It’s—well. It’s not like anything Hank would’ve ever really picked for himself, not that he’s ever been some big interior decorator, but it’s nice in a way. Calming in its tidy unfamiliarity. He sits on the side of the bed and looks over the welcome note left on the side table, listing out some local TV channels, restaurants, and the Wi-Fi password. The open door across the room leads into a tiny bathroom with a glass-door shower and a vanity, and there’s a mini fridge tucked under the table serving as a small writing desk.

Home for the next three days, then. Fuck knows what he’s going to do to try and kill all this time until Monday. It leaves a weird ache in his chest that he hasn’t felt in a while. You spend so many years self-medicating with Black Lamb and mindless television and maybe you forget what it feels like to sit in your own silent company with a clear head. Not so much sadness, because Hank learned he wasn’t allowed to be sad about his own shitty life choices a while ago, but…lonely, maybe, could be the right word.

He’s suddenly very tired—exhausted, actually, and it makes him recline back on the made-up bed so his head falls into the soft pillow. The lake is glittering outside and serving as a perfect backdrop to a picturesque spring day, but all Hank wants to do in this moment is close his eyes and take a long nap.

The last far-off, fading thought he has as drowsiness pulls him under is that he wishes somebody were here to help fill in some of the easy silence.

  
  
  
  


There’s a knock at the door.

Hank’s eyes snap open and his legs shift to the side of the bed before he’s even fully awake, knees creaking when he bends them so his feet touch the floor. He’s must’ve been asleep for a couple hours at least, because the light in the room has shifted and slants in the window from the west.

He pushes a hand through his hair and gets up, trudging over to the door to pull it open without any preamble. He expects one of the elderly caretakers and not much else, but what he finds instead are two brown eyes and a red ring blinking back at him.

Connor had already been talking before the door was fully open. “Hello there, my name’s Connor, I came to introduce my—oh.”

“Oh _shit_,” Hank says, jaw hanging open. He hadn’t meant to swear first thing but it startled out of him like a spooked bird. “What the hell are you doing here, Con?”

Connor’s eyes widen almost comically as he takes a step back, LED still flaring scarlet. For a moment he looks like he’s forgotten where he is, mouth moving even though sound isn’t coming out. “Lieutenant...?” he asks. Slowly, the light at his temple starts circling yellow, and he looks up to meet Hank’s eye with confusion spelled clear across his face. “There was only a 3.2% probability we’d somehow both book rooms at the same bed & breakfast on Lake Portage.”

“What have I said about you forecasting my personal moves like you’re the goddamn weatherman?” Hank grumbles as he hauls the door back until it’s resting against the wall. He still can’t do anything but hang in the room like a haggard ghost, the threshold still acting as some invisible barrier between them. They stare at each other for a beat of silence and then realization barrels into Hank like a freight train.

“Jesus Christ,” he says. “Hold on, did Jeffrey—?”

“—tell you to temporarily lease a room at an inn on Portage Lake?” Connor finishes. “Yes, as a matter of fact. The Captain seemed to think it would be a good place to clear my mind and meditate on my personal life before we return to the Shepherd case.”

Hank drags a hand over his face, staring off at some far point on the wall. He shakes his head and barks out a laugh. “That son of a bitch.”

Connor takes a step forward, empty hands held between them like some kind of peace offering. The way he’s standing makes him look like a figure pulled from the frame of an old master oil painting, like one of the apostles seated at the table for the last supper. It’s uncanny and all too human in the same breath, and Hank hates that he’s thinking about small things like this when he never did before.

“I promise Captain Fowler didn’t tell me where you were going,” Connor says, tip of his tongue darting out to press against his bottom lip for a split second before he speaks again. “I made the choice to stay here of my own free will. It genuinely seemed like a good idea, especially because I’d never—well.” His voice withdraws a bit, suddenly something more unsure and shy. “I’ve never spent any time near an actual natural body of water like this before. It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?”

Hank watches him from the corner of his eye, taking a long, deep breath before his shoulders visibly deflate. He doesn’t think Connor followed him here, unless he’d bugged his home tablet and gotten enough foresight to make travel arrangements on short notice. But then again, there’d already been one other room booked for the weekend when he checked in the night before, and that means if anybody followed anybody, it was Hank who came in second.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” he grunts, and then places a hand on the jamb to lean there in the doorway. “Listen—are we the only two people here this weekend? No other booked rooms?”

Connor’s LED does that thing where it flickers between blue and yellow while he does something with the computer in his head. Olympian Googling, Hank sometimes calls it. But he finds the answer he’s looking for and nods almost right away, pulling up a visual graphic on his palm display to show Hank the bed & breakfast’s online booking portal. Sure as anything, it’s just Hank’s room and the one he glanced at the night before that are taken.

“I’ll be damned,” Hank says with a sigh, still staring at Connor’s hand. A tiny smile he wasn’t anticipating twitches around his mouth. “Guess we couldn’t beat each other off with a stick, huh?”

The display on Connor’s palm cuts out abruptly and he smoothes his hands down the sides of his thighs like they’re sweaty even though Hank knows they aren’t. It’s early spring and Connor’s wearing jeans and a thin button-down and nothing else, and even if he was too warm it’s not possible for him to perspire. “If you’d like me to leave you alone and keep to myself while we’re here, Lieutenant, please just say the word,” he says, eyes slightly averted. “I don’t want to infringe on your private time—”

“Nah, kid, don’t worry about it,” Hank says, screwing up his face as he waves Connor off. “Christ, you saying ‘private time’ makes it sound like I was beating off in here.”

Connor’s LED cycles yellow at that, eyes doing a quick sweep from the top of Hank’s head to the bottom of his shoes. Fuck, like he’d been checking to be sure. The thought makes Hank’s face hot to the touch.

“No, it appears you were taking a nap,” Connor says thoughtfully while Hank shifts his weight around from foot to foot. “I must’ve missed your car on the opposite side of the building when I arrived. I…got a little distracted by the caretakers’ cat, Priscilla.”

“Oh yeah?” Hank asks, trying not to sound flustered. “Sumo’s back home with Ben and Marcy having the time of his life, so at least he won’t get too jealous if he smells a lady on you.”

Connor goes quiet again, mulling that over. “I don’t think he’d mind,” he says after a moment. “Sumo knows where my loyalties lie.”

Hank chuckles at that, and makes sure he has his wallet and phone before he finally steps out of the room. Connor steps to the side as he pats himself down for a key before he remembers the code panel and pulls the door shut with a huff. “Does Sumo know you’ve got a promise ring for him?” he teases, and then regrets it the second it leaves his mouth. “Uh—shit, never mind. That was a joke. Bad one. Sorry.”

“No offense taken,” Connor says, only the smallest amount of space between him and Hank where they both stand in the narrow hallway now. “Where are you going?”

“To see the goddamn lake you were talking about,” Hank says, just a little tightly, and then thuds toward the stairs. “You coming or what?”

Connor immediately falls into step behind Hank and once they’re on the first floor landing and out the front door, falls into step right beside him, easy as anything. Hank does his best not to feel satisfied about it all, even if from an outsider’s perspective this would be the most absurdly unexpected series of events imaginable. If any other coworker of his had showed up at the same place for the weekend, he’d have already checked out without a refund and been burning rubber on the road back to Detroit.

But with Connor it—it’s different. The initial shock of seeing his face so many miles from home was short-lived and now Hank’s thinking he should probably just be grateful for the company. 

As they walk through the side yard toward the water, Priscilla the cat has returned for another impromptu liaison, little jingle bell collar tinkling as she trots over to Connor with her tail held high. Hank slows so Connor can kneel down and stroke her calico head, trying his best not to smile and failing miserably.

Sunlight glints off the surface of the lake as it ripples in the breeze, and from a distance Hank can hear chimes spinning at the back of the caretaker’s cottage. An elderly man waves once at them from the yard but doesn’t approach, busy digging in his flowerbeds, and that’s fine by Hank. Connor straightens up to continue their trek down to the long dock while Priscilla follows at her leisure, happy to show her new guests their weekend getaway.

Their footsteps slap on the old wooden planking, recently sanded and stained for the approaching busy season. Hank stands at the end of the dock with Connor beside him, the two of them watching a cormorant poke its head above water as it bobs there in place.

Connor looks down at the gentle waves lapping against the support posts and seems mesmerized. There are tiny clutches of frog eggs clinging to the damp wood, odd and pink as pearls, and a crude heart somebody carved into the plank between his feet with what must’ve been a pocketknife. _Bill & Judy ’89_ it reads on the inside. That was fifty years ago now.

“We should come back out here later when the sun’s going down,” Hank says, squinting some in the brightness of midday. “Bet the water reflects the whole sky at dusk.”

“I’d like that,” Connor says with a nod, and if Hank’s ears aren’t fooling him he almost sounds wistful. “What should we do until then?”

Hank rolls one shoulder in a half-assed shrug and tucks his thumbs in his jean pockets. “I dunno,” he says. “Jeff said something about relaxing, but I haven’t really figured out how to do that without getting to the bottom of a bottle in a long time. This is all new hat to me.”

At Connor’s half-stricken expression, he snorts. “As if you ever give the hamster wheel in your head a break.”

“I enjoy reading and partaking in hobbies and other crafts, thank you very much,” Connor insists, adamant. “Sometimes I specifically slow down my processing power to better appreciate the experience.”

“But you’re _thinking,_” Hank says, loose hair blowing in the breeze as he tips his head to one side, looking at Connor. “That’s still something that keeps your mind occupied whether you’re speeding through it or not.”

Connor looks vaguely upset by this new revelation, temple blinking red for two full rotations until it flickers to white and then back to blue. “What do you suggest, then?” he asks after a moment. “How does one enjoy themselves and relax without applying any noteworthy brainpower?”

“No fucking clue,” Hank says, but he smiles as he does. “I’m just as bad-off as you are, if not ten times worse. We’re two peas in a pod, baby.”

That _baby_ had slipped out by surprise, unbidden, far easier than Hank would’ve ever expected it to. The back of his neck heats up again and Connor’s right temple is obscured from view but the look on his face is neutral, eyes still glued on the water.

“We could drive or walk into town,” Connor says softly. “There’s a diner and a convenience store that are open if you wanted to have lunch.”

Now that Connor mentions it, Hank does feel like he’s one square meal away from starving. He’d only had a cup of cheap gas station coffee on the drive up from Detroit and that had been hours ago. He remembers passing the diner in town and seeing their chalkboard sign advertising Reuben sandwiches and blueberry cobbler, and his gut growls at the thought.

“Sounds like a plan,” Hank says, and then feels some ounce of self-betrayal when he hears himself say, “It’s decent enough day for a walk.”

But Connor’s smile more than makes up for any woeful exercise pangs, so wide that two matching dimples deepen in his cheeks. CyberLife truly did think of everything, the bastards.

“We’re going to a chintzy diner stuck thirty years in the past, not Disney,” Hank grumbles good-naturedly as he gets a hand around Connor’s shoulder and gently steers him back up toward the lake house. Priscilla is sitting vigil there at the barrier between shore and wood, green eyes dazzling in the sunlight. Hank’s never been much of one for cats, but he still tuts at her as they pass and head for the dirt lane that’ll lead into town.

“Do you need more comfortable shoes or a drink of water before we go?” Connor asks, looking down at Hank’s battered old Docs laced up under his jeans.

“Nah, I’ll live,” Hank tells him, working on rolling his sleeves up over his forearms as they walk. “Why don’t you tell me about some of those hobbies of yours, huh? Color me curious.”

Connor delves right into a vibrant discussion of his tropical fish tank, his favorite poets, knitting hats and scarves for the homeless shelters, how he and Markus have been sparring in attempts to naturally learn jiu jitsu. Hank throws in the odd word or question occasionally, urging him along, and it’s not bad at all. They walk in the sunshine with the lake right there in view and maybe it’s a little easier to not think about dead kids and all the terrible shit they have to deal with at work. Hell, maybe it’s the best he’s felt in a long time.

  
  
  
  


Lunch goes over without a hitch, home-style cooking for more than a fair price. Hank cleans his plate and then polishes off most of his dessert except for some stray cobbler crumbles and one little lick of blueberry sauce there on the edge of his dish. Connor eyeballs it for so long that Hank spins the plate around and pushes it an inch or two across the table.

“Knock yourself out,” he says, and Connor’s cheeks seem to color some, but he swipes his finger through the sugary stuff and brings it up to his tongue all the same. Hank knows he can’t _really_ taste it, at least not the way a typical human would, but Connor still looks like he enjoys the new analysis profile.

“There’s real blueberry puree in there,” he says, and then smiles. “And lots and lots of sugar.”

“That’s what makes it so damn good, hot shot,” Hank says, slinging his arm across the back of their diner booth. There’s only one other small family still eating after the lunch hour and a lone man drinking coffee at the bar, and now that Hank’s not busy eating there’s not much else to do but work a toothpick around his mouth and gaze at nothing in particular—at least until his eyes stray over to Connor.

The android in question is staring out the window into the dusty parking lot, LED like a sliver of some serene blue jewel at his temple. Daylight slips through the slatted blinds and cuts in bright bars of gold across his shoulders and half his face, the brown eye closest to the window turned a vivid shade of honey amber.

Hank knows he’s staring but can’t seem to make himself stop. If Connor knows he’s being watched, which he undoubtedly does because Connor knows everything, he doesn’t mention it. And that is what allows Hank to keep on looking: the fact that he has been caught, but the wider fact that the catcher doesn’t really mind too much at all.

The sunlight does something for Connor’s features that the artificial lighting in the bullpen does not. Here, unlike under the greenish fluorescent bar lights, he glows. He looks human, and then almost more than human. Every mole on his skin stands out stark, every eyebrow hair highlighted, every tiny crease and would-be imperfection somebody had lovingly taken the time to etch into his face lit up. The only thing missing are the fine blue-green lines of veins running under Connor’s pale skin, but even Michelangelo’s David doesn’t have those.

It occurs to Hank, in this clear but belated moment, that his dumbfuck self has gone and fallen in love.

Had it taken all six months of their partnership to figure that out? The realization doesn’t slide down his spine like a cold, conniving finger—it makes his stomach jump and tremble in an odd way, though, and that’s an old feeling Hank hasn’t felt in too many years to count. He’s not panicking. He’s _not._

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, throwing a bill on the table before standing abruptly enough that his hip rattles the silverware. “Need some fucking air.”

“Are you alright, Lieutenant?” Connor asks, immediately moving to follow him with a concerned expression on his face, and it’s not until they’re halfway out the door that Hank grumbles, “How many times have I told you not to call me by rank when we’re not at work?”

Connor’s LED doesn’t even need to blink yellow before he has his answer. “Seventeen.”

Hank turns in the parking lot, mouth open, ready to say something—but he doesn’t know what. His jaw shuts with a tiny click and he narrows his eyes even though he’s far from annoyed or angry. “Is that so?” 

“I’ve saved an audiovisual recording of every one,” Connor answers primly, smiling with that shit-eating grin of his. “They’re sentimental keepsakes.”

Now that they’re outside, Hank is suddenly all too grimly aware that they didn’t drive here, and that he can’t drown out his own thoughts with some death metal on the way back to the bed & breakfast. They walked. And now they’ve got to walk all the way back.

“—I hope that hasn’t made you uncomfortable, Hank,” Connor says into the silence between them while they trudge out of the parking lot, LED spinning golden now. He’d been serious.

“Uncomfortable with you keeping an organized database of me being an old bastard in your head?” Hank grunts, raking a long-suffering hand back through his hair. “Not a chance, kid. My college flings did weirder shit.” 

“Like what?”

“Like keeping my underwear in a plastic bag in the closet kind of weird,” Hank says, and then swallows around the hot embarrassment crawling up his throat. “Not that stuff like that—happened all the fuckin’ time or anything. That dude was just a trip and a half.”

Connor’s temple flashes to red and stutters for half a second. “You’ve dated men before?”

Hank suddenly wants to sink into the gravel road and die. “Yes,” he says, and then so desperately wants to change the subject that he doesn’t even have time to slap the filter over his mouth before he blurts out, “What, you haven’t?”

Connor studies his shoes walking along the ground as he walks, one perfect step after another. Hank’s only just noticed that he’s not wearing his work shoes, having traded them for a new lace-up pair of clean sneakers instead.

“No,” Connor says, almost in a mumble. “I haven’t—uhm. I haven’t dated anybody.”

Hank blinks, stilled for the moment. “Oh,” he says simply. “That’s surprising, Con.”

“I’d like to, maybe,” Connor says, and then lets the silence fall back between them. “Sometime.” A songbird cheeps from the scrubby trees along the roadside and when Hank looks up again, he feels those two brown eyes lingering along the side of his face.

It’s a weird moment to reconcile in his head; it either means nothing, or it means everything. And Hank is scared absolutely shitless at the prospect of both.

“You’ll find the right person when your ticket comes up, kid,” Hank hears himself say in a surprisingly even tone. The words almost pour from his mouth like sand from the bottom of a torn flour sack. “It’ll happen. Always seems to in the end. And your girl or guy will be luckier for it, if my opinion means anything.”

“Of course it does, Hank,” Connor says, just a gentle rasp on top of the breeze. His eyes are on the lake now, clear but faintly distracted, watching the water lap against the sandy bank.

They walk in easy silence all the way back to the inn, soaking up the last dregs of afternoon sun as the beginnings of a storm begin building on the horizon in the distance.  
  
  


* * *  
  
  


Being in love, as it turns out, is a lot like having indigestion after one of the best meals of your life.

Hank lasts all of forty-five minutes restlessly watching television in his room before he strides down the narrow hall and raps twice on the only other occupied room in the old house. Connor opens up almost right away, still fully dressed, a brightly expectant expression on his face. Hank knows his partner would have been able to discern the familiar fall of his footsteps the whole way across the second story landing. Maybe it doesn’t creep him out as much as it _should _that Connor had probably stood at the door and waited when he wasn’t even halfway there yet.

“So maybe I’m a hypocrite,” Hank says, reaching up to palm the back of his neck as he flashes Connor a tight little smirk. “Turns out I can’t turn my brain off, either.”

Connor’s returning smile doesn’t look like a reflection, exactly, but it does make Hank feel better. “I was just going to come and ask you about joining me on the dock to watch the sun set,” he says, stepping out of his room to pull the door halfway shut. “Though I think there’s a higher chance we may get caught in the rain.”

“Risk worth taking,” Hank grunts, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t quite know where to look when Connor’s this close and it feels like he’s sixteen and struck stupid all over again. Watch the sunset together—fuckin’ A, but Christ if he doesn’t want to do just that. “C’mon.”

The breeze is strong enough to make the old trees sway and shiver, branches creaking in the grey wash of evening twilight. There’s no real sunset to speak of save for one tiny sliver of orange between clouds across the lake and even Priscilla has disappeared indoors for the night to wait out the coming storm. Hank sits on the dock and tries to take it all in anyway, even if only because he’s in decent company. Only a few seconds pass until Connor folds in on himself and takes a seat on the plank beside Hank, long legs dangling above the choppy water.

When he looks up the wind makes that errant little curl of hair whip around his forehead, but Connor seems mostly unbothered. His LED is turned away but Hank probably wouldn’t have even guessed with a cue what was about to come out of Connor’s mouth.

“Admittedly I’ve noticed that your heart rate has been spiking at odd intervals throughout the afternoon, and you’re flushing more than usual,” he says, studying Hank carefully despite the impending storm. “Has my presence here made you uneasy, or is it…something else?”

_Something else._ Hank feels his stomach plummet like an anvil before it surges back up into his throat like a haunted elevator, the sensation almost strong enough to give him vertigo. His mind races and he tries to convince himself the conclusion he came to earlier was premature, he’s a shitty detective, just a bumbling old heartsick fool who couldn’t read tracks in the sand if they were painted bright red on the goddamn ground— 

“I’m glad you’re here, Con,” he manages to rasp out before briefly clenching his teeth together. It doesn’t last, because a tiny laugh bubbles up past Hank’s lips, just on this side of hysterical, and he hides most of his face behind one broad palm. “Can you believe I thought about asking you to come with me? Fuck.”

“No,” Connor answers in one gentle breath. “Why didn’t you?”

“I thought you needed some time away from work and me—time for yourself, y’know?” Hank says, letting his hand slap against his thigh in defeat. “I can’t always ask you to drop everything and run over when I get a fuckin’ whim about something or need somebody to come talk me off a ledge like some sad sack of a charity case. You’ve got your own brand new life to live.”

Connor frowns. “Hank,” he tries, sounding pained. “Did you ever imagine that I may have wanted to come with you, if you’d only asked?”

That makes Hank pause, still, and blink in the damp air. The orange pinch of light is wiped from the skyline now, leaving behind nothing but a wall of grey iron slate. Thunder threatens louder than before but Hank doesn’t hear it over the blood roaring in his ears.

“I wanted you to,” he stammers, finding it a little hard to breathe. “Connor. I—I want…”

Connor leans in an inch that feels more like a mile, so dangerously close, his soft mouth right there. Maybe Hank can’t help it when he closes the last half-inch of space between them and presses their lips together.

When they’re kissing, right there on the dock in front of god and everything, Hank realizes what piece of the puzzle he’d been missing for the past six months. So much shit changes, yeah, but Connor had always been a constant in his life from the moment he stepped into it. Something tells Hank he’d been waiting for this a lot longer than he gave himself credit for.

He brings a hand up and cups Connor’s face, indulging himself in a thumb ran from the corner of his mouth to the hinge of his jaw. It’s a tender thing, done without much thinking, but makes Connor’s lashes flutter as he fists his hands in the material of Hank’s shirt. When the tips of their tongues brush together Hank chuckles into Connor’s mouth and Connor vibrates against him like a struck tuning fork.

“Oh,” he says, one word panted against Hank’s cheek. He blinks rapidly, dark eyes dilated with interest. Their faces are still close together because Hank has a warm palm around the back of his neck, fingertip brushing against the tiny, synthetic hairs there. Rain starts across the lake and rolls toward them but they don’t move.

“Hope that was alright,” Hank croaks, gently drawing away until his hand is on Connor’s arm instead of his neck. He looks down at the dock between them, shy in a way, but smiling all the same. “Huh.”

Before Hank can push another feeble thought through his head—which would’ve invariably been about how he’s too old for this and it isn’t appropriate, they shouldn’t, Connor’s got better prospects out there and Hank should’ve thrown in the towel a long time ago—, Connor surges forward and pulls him into another kiss just as the sky splits open into a downpour.

The fingers on his left hand climb up over Hank’s chest and shoulder and then to his hair, curling in the silver waves there even though they’re both soaked through within seconds. His palm cups the base of Hank’s skull and it’s such a strange feeling, even being held in this small way, that Hank doesn’t recall the last time he remembers it happening.

Connor kisses like he’s spent a thousand years hungering for it and even with the rain streaming into his eyes and down his face, Hank finds that he doesn’t hunger or gasp for air; every time he feels the urge to draw a breath, Connor breathes out with his synthetic lungs. The realization is so jarring that Hank breaks away and wheezes, mopping water from his eyes and laughing at how fucking crazy it all is.

The storm has plastered Connor’s shirt to his chest, every delicate line and muscle of his skin visible through the wet fabric. Hank rests a hand over his sternum and says, distractedly, “Thank fuck you don’t rust.”

Connor looks bereft without Hank’s mouth on his, but when Hank tries to stand the android beats him to it, rising up and pulling him to his feet. He doesn’t let go even as they walk up the slippery dock and then jog back through the yard toward the house, ducking under the porch’s awning while rain drums overhead.

Water pools around their waterlogged shoes in wide puddles that look like glass on the whitewashed boards. Hank rakes a hand through his drenched hair and heaves out a sigh, breathing a little hard for more reasons than just running.

“Hank,” Connor says, quiet, only barely audible over the storm. It’s only the second word he’s spoken in what feels like an eternity, and when those brown eyes flick up to meet his Hank feels like he’s falling. “I can assure you, that was more than just alright.”

Hank snorts. “Left you speechless, hmm?”

“Very,” Connor says, dark eyes still glittering as the porch light flickers on. He looks hungry, eager, and so painfully young and beautiful that it’s not fair. Hank’s not jealous—just tired. And now that he’s ruined the only pair of shoes he brought and they’re away from the peculiar lulling magic of the rolling lake, the reality of what just happened hits him like a runaway truck.

“Fuck, Con,” he says, immediately exhausted. “We’re work partners.”

Connor’s LED spins yellow, stuttering at his temple. “I’m perfectly aware of that, Hank,” he says. “I don’t think our partnership within the precinct has to be directly informed by the one outside it, do you?”

“Tell that to HR,” Hank says weakly. It’s a piss-poor excuse and they both know it.

“I will if you’d like,” Connor quips back, and the seriousness of it makes Hank pause.

_I would like_, is the first thought that streaks through Hank’s mind. His head feels just as waterlogged as his shoes, and he wishes he could tip it over to one side and pour out everything he doesn’t need from his ear. He hates himself when he says, “I want us both to sleep on this a couple nights, think about whether it’s something we want to continue after we get back to work on Monday.”

Connor doesn’t say anything and Hank tries again. “If it’s something you’re sure _you_ want to do, Con. Okay?” 

Another rumble of thunder booms overhead and Connor’s eyes are thrown somewhere out in the yard, watching dirt and gravel turn to muddy sludge. The line of his mouth twitches and wavers in a way that is distinctly not a glitch, but a human expression of something intimately true gone unsaid.

“Only if you promise to do the same,” he says. And then, more resolutely, “What if I knew right now that it’s exactly what I want to do?”

“Maybe you should get your processors checked,” Hank rasps out. It’s meant to be a joking comment but it only sounds like a defeated man doling out a passing insult to the only person who gives a real damn about him anymore, except maybe Jeff. “Listen, Connor, I’m not—I’m not the man I used to be.”

Connor’s eyes flash, jaw set into a firm line. “I never knew that man,” he says. “I only know this one, and I know he’s who I care about. _You_, Hank.”

Hank can’t look at him, eyes focused just slightly to the right of Connor’s face at a thermometer nailed to the porch’s support beam. The temperature had dropped nearly fifteen degrees in the wake of the thunderstorm. “Maybe that’s the problem,” he says.

It’s not even eight o’clock and androids don’t sleep, but Connor promptly turns and keys the code into the door before opening it up. “I think I’m going to bed early tonight. You should get out of those wet clothes and warm yourself up. You’re shaking.”

He stands there just long enough for Hank to follow him inside, and when the door clicks behind them Connor turns and takes measured steps up to the second landing, wet shoes squeaking all the way down the hall in a way that would almost be comical in any other situation.

Maybe Hank wants to go back outside and walk himself into the lake for fucking all this up. He stands there long enough to drip a damp spot on the inn’s nice foyer rug, and then swears under his breath and stomps upstairs.

When he gets into his room he doesn’t even bother turning on the lights or the television, only strips himself naked there just inside the door and turns the shower up to scalding, hoping to high hell the hot water may help burn some of the embarrassment and ache out of his head.

After his shower Hank forgoes getting dressed again, only tugs the curtains halfway shut and falls into bed before yanking the sheet up over his bare skin. Rain drums heavily on the roof and he breathes as deeply as he can, mechanical in a way, willing sleep to hurry up and take him. He watches lightning flash once across the lake and then shuts his eyes, letting the cool darkness of the room wash over him until it all eventually slips away.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

  
  
When Hank next opens his eyes again, bleary and vaguely unsettled, the house around him has gone silent. He doesn’t quite notice right away—it’s still drizzling outside and the rain gently washes over the eerie blanket of quiet thrown over the room. No whirring fan, no creaking from the radiator, no hum coming from the mini fridge below the dry bar. The power’s out and the bed and breakfast must not be hooked up to a backup generator, or at least it hasn’t kicked in just yet. Hank palms his phone off the bedside table to check the time and sees it’s just a few minutes short of two o’clock in the morning.

He darkens his phone and lays there, still sprawled out naked under the covers. The room isn’t warm but not cold enough to be uncomfortable, and for that, at least, he’s thankful. He has his eyes open against the impenetrable inky blackness, not even able to see his own hand in front of his face, when something creaks in the hall and he hears the doorknob turn.

Hank’s gun is in the glove compartment in his car, too far away to be any good to him now. He regrets not bringing it up yesterday and then wonders how the hell the keypad on the door is working when the power’s out. He must’ve forgotten to lock it back when he drug his ass in from the rain earlier in the evening.

The door swings open and for a minute Hank doesn’t see or hear anything at all, save for his own heartbeat thudding in his chest. Now would be one hell of a time to start believing in ghosts. He blinks and then the figure in the doorway must turn, because a serene blue circle suddenly shines and casts a soft glow across the room.

“Hank,” Connor says quietly, and then doesn’t move any further. “I see you’re awake.”

“The power’s out,” Hank says dumbly, and makes a pained face he’s sure Connor can see despite the pitch darkness. “Nearly gave me a fuckin’ heart attack sneaking in here like that, Con. You okay?”

Connor’s LED goes gold, rotating while he weighs out his words. “I’m fine,” he says, but when his temple doesn’t shift back to blue Hank waits for more. “I—I wouldn’t have come in here if you were sleeping.”

Hank watches Connor’s temple and Connor watches him. The rain pattern shifts outside and picks up speed, slanting heavy across the side of the house, but it’s not so loud that Hank can’t hear the old floorboards creak as Connor pads over to the side of the bed.

He looks up at the pinch of yellow light, heart in his throat for a different reason. “Connor,” he says, trying to keep his voice low and steady. “I’m not dressed.”

Hank swears he can hear the smile in Connor’s voice when he answers, softly, “I know.”

There’s a long length of silence, the weight of it nearly impenetrable. Hank parses through his options and wonders about all the little things that may have led him to this moment. Coincidence after coincidence mottled together with all his fumbling and teetering, trying to look for excuses when the answer had always been right there, just within reach.

“You know everything, don’t you?” Hank rasps, and then, hands moving as if on their own accord, reaches over to pull the corner of the blankets back before shifting to his left. “C’mon.”

Connor’s weight makes the side of the bed dip as he sits and slowly draws his feet up from the floor. There’s the faint rustling sound of another person’s bare skin on smooth cotton and that’s something Hank hasn’t heard in a long while. It makes chills crop up on his arms and his nipples harden with a strange sense of frisson. Connor probably sees that, too.

“Lay down,” Hank says gently, waiting until he feels Connor’s head rest against the pillow. He clears his throat, tongue wetting his lower lip in a reflex. “Why’d you come in here, Connor?”

Connor turns over on his side, LED casting up toward the ceiling now. Blue like they’re under the water, the surf rippling overhead. Hank feels submerged.

“I wanted to be with you,” Connor says simply. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened earlier, and—I don’t want to sleep on it. I already know what I want.” 

“You do,” Hank sighs, wondering if it’s a question or a statement.

“Yes,” Connor answers. One of his hands shifts on top of the covers, sliding between them. “I think you do, too. But you’re afraid.”

Hank snorts, reaching up to hold a hand over his eyes. “If this is about you being an android, Connor, I swear that’s not—”

“I didn’t say you were afraid of _me_. You’re not even really scared of what other people would think—you never have been.” Connor pauses, voice hushed despite how hurt it sounds. “You’re only afraid of yourself.”

His words settle in the bedding, sinking around Hank like dropped stones. He thinks he wants to argue, tell Connor to get the fuck out, that he’s wrong, that he doesn’t know shit. But he doesn’t—can’t. When he does open his mouth, he tries to laugh but pulls in a shaky-sounding breath instead.

“Connor,” he says, feeling cool fingers find and wrap around his own as they gently pull Hank’s hand away from his face. “Don’t.”

“I’ve never been afraid of you,” Connor whispers into Hank’s palm before pressing one light kiss there. “You make me feel safe, Hank. Like I’m something worth protecting.”

“You are,” Hank murmurs. His old heart is hammering again but he doesn’t pull away. God, and he doesn’t want to. “You’ve always been. Fuck, I only wish I’d known that from the start.”

Hank reaches out through the dark and touches Connor’s face. Still smooth, soft, lips plush and slightly open under the pad of his thumb. Despite all his handsome beauty Connor could kill him with a single blow but Hank’s not thinking about that right now. Only how he may die, right here, in this bed, if he somehow lets Connor get up without leaning in and kissing him.

With his thumb still resting at the corner of the android’s mouth, Hank closes the distance between them and crushes his lips into Connor’s. Their noses bump together and it’s a messy, half-crooked kiss, but he hopes it gets his point across. Connor’s only response is to moan into Hank’s mouth, hand braced around his bare shoulder, curling further into Hank until their knees brush beneath the covers.

Hank hasn’t kissed somebody like this in years—maybe a decade. Connor’s tongue swipes against his lower lip and Hank doesn’t even think about work and DNA samples and everything else, only opens his mouth and lets Connor in. It’s strange and exhilarating and only a little off-kilter, but good. It’s good. Hank curls his palm around the back of Connor’s neck again and holds him there, only backing off when he needs a deeper breath.

“Hank,” Connor whispers, so close, fingertips running down Hank’s bicep to the more delicate inner part of his elbow. His pointer and index finger feel like a semicolon there, resting against Hank’s pulse, waiting for more to come. “Will you touch me?”

This is the part Hank’s mind hadn’t gotten to yet, like he’d bricked and sealed the delusion off after kissing Connor and marked the rest as null. The question doesn’t startle him, but it does feel like he’s wading through a dream. Thing is, Hank knows he doesn’t want this one to be over—quite the opposite. Maybe he doesn’t ever want it to end.

There’s his answer, then.

“Baby,” Hank croaks with a huff of laughter, lightly drawing his hand down Connor’s back to the fine lumbar curve there, holding him like that. “I’ll do anything you want.”

“I want,” Connor says, but doesn’t ever elaborate, surging forward for another kiss. _More. You. This. Everything._

Hank lets his hand travel lower and under Connor’s drawstring sleep pants he touches the water-soft feel of warm satin. It’s unexpected, almost a mild shock, but he hooks his fingers under a lace edge and pops the elastic against Connor’s hip just to confirm what he can’t quite see in the dark—and oh, yes, those are definitely panties.

“Mmm,” Hank hums, pleased as punch. He chuckles, partway giddy with some new thought. “You wear these under your clothes at work, too?”

“Sometimes,” Connor says, making a tiny sound when Hank squeezes the supple little curve of his ass in one big palm. The whole line of his body stretches and curls against Hank like a purring cat. “Do you like them?”

“Love them,” Hank answers in a soft murmur against Connor’s jaw, and then goes quiet when he presses the heel of his hand down against the android’s groin and doesn’t quite find what he was expecting. There’s a little give under his palm, maybe the slightest layer of synthetic padding, but no telltale bulge to be found.

Connor’s LED cycles from azure to gold when he notices that Hank’s paused, even for only a fraction of a second. “Hank?” he asks, long fingers braced around Hank’s side.

“Guess an old man still takes some things for granted,” Hank rasps, leaning forward to leave a crooked kiss on Connor’s face. “Sorry I—I didn’t mean to assume.”

“That’s alright,” Connor says, though his voice still feels a little smaller than usual, and Hank wants to kick himself in the ass for putting any speck of doubt at all in Connor’s mind. “Androids can choose to alter their genital components or go completely without if they wish, but I generally prefer this one.”

Hank nods, knowing Connor can see him just fine through the dark. “That’s fine, sweetheart,” he says. His heart feels like a struck gong in his chest, making all his extremities buzz for a few seconds with tingles. Hank decides that if he’s going into cardiac arrest, at this point it’d be more than worth it. “God, I wouldn’t change a single thing about you.”

Before Hank’s hand returns to cup the rounded curve of Connor’s mound, he clears his throat and asks. “Can I—?”

“Yes, Hank,” Connor breathes out through a sigh. “I want you to touch me more than anything.”

Hank tips their faces together for another kiss and gently presses the ring and middle fingers of his left hand lower against the crotch of Connor’s panties, and when he touches the warm wetness bleeding through the satin and fleshy softness underneath a tiny gasp ghosts across his mouth.

“You’re perfect, Con, you know that?” Hank growls, stroking Connor through his underwear, smiling when the android hums and parts his thighs for more. He can feel himself getting hard, his dick bobbing there against his inner thigh as it slowly comes to life.

When Hank hooks a thumb into the top of the panties and lets his hand slip inside, he gently traces around the nub of Connor’s cock, rubbing it between two fingers. That makes Connor buck up against him, LED flaring red while he gasps out a broken sound.

“Hank,” Connor gasps, shamelessly grinding up against his touch. “Do that again.”

“You ever touched yourself like this before?” Hank asks, letting Connor hump his hand. “Made yourself feel good.”

“Y-yes,” Connor says, squeezing his thighs around Hank’s forearm when he feels two thick fingers dip lower to press against his hole. “Fuck, Hank, I need—more.”

Hearing Connor swear makes Hank growl around a chuckle, but instead of probing further he pulls his hands away. “I have a better idea,” he says, mouth already watering at the thought alone. “Wanna taste you.”

It’s too dark to see Connor’s eyes widen, but Hank sits up with some ado and feels along Connor’s legs until he gets his fingers under the waistband of his pajamas and pulls them down over his thighs. Connor whines and spreads his knees as Hank tosses the soft pants to the side, flung somewhere onto the floor.

“This okay?” Hank asks, pressing a kiss against Connor’s thigh as he spreads a hand over the tight plane of his lower belly. “God, I wish I could see you.”

Connor’s synthetic muscles flutter under his hand, tightening in anticipation. “Please, Hank,” he says. “Need you.”

It’s a strangely exciting exploration in the pitch dark, everything maneuvered through touch rather than sight. Hank’s movements are slow at first, tentative—he noses into the soft crease of Connor’s thigh and kisses there, too, before his mouth lands on the silken heat between his legs. He’s always known about the Traci models, somewhere in the back of his mind, but he’d never taken any up on their services.

He pushes his tongue in between the folds and laves the flat of it up from Connor’s hole to his swollen cock, rewarded by a low keen and tremble that runs like a current through Connor’s thighs bracketed over his shoulders. There’s no distinguishing this from the real thing and Hank’s a little dazed with it, struck stupid by the faintly bittersweet but all too familiar taste.

Connor’s already so wet that Hank can feel the slick gathering in his beard. He takes Connor’s cock between his lips and hums around it, free hand come back up to tease around his hole. Connor’s hands tangle in his hair but stay gentle, idly tugging at the roots that make Hank want to give him more.

He sucks for all he’s worth, eating Connor out like it’s the only worldly thing he knows how to do but breathe. Connor grinds down against his face, panting in high, gasping breaths, and when Hank pushes two fingers inside him up to the last knuckle and crooks them up the room glows scarlet as Connor’s LED flares and he clenches around Hank’s hand, sending another rush of slick out to coat his beard and chin.

Connor comes silently other than a tiny choked sound in the back of his throat, short and cut-off, like he’d wanted to cry out but stopped himself. They’ll have to work on that, then.

Hank gentles him through it, though, lapping at Connor’s cock a few more times before easing off to catch his breath, huffing there against his taut belly. His own untouched dick aches and throbs where it’s pressed between his pelvis and the bed, begging for more friction. Hank ignores it for now and lets his fingers slip from Connor’s body, wiping his mouth and hand across the sheet before climbing back up to thud back into the bedding at Connor’s side.

Connor turns into his arms right away, eager mouth finding Hank’s without any pause or fumble. The kiss is hot, sinful, Connor’s tongue shoving back into Hank’s mouth for a taste of himself. He moans and Hank can feel it everywhere they touch, still winded by everything he’s feeling when Connor murmurs against his lips. “Thank you.”

The tip of Hank’s cock brushes Connor’s stomach and it makes them both shudder. Hank has to bite into his lip when he feels long, smooth fingers wrap around his shaft, curious at first, testing the weight of him. Connor fondles him with a gentle twist on the upstroke, fingertips fixated on tracing the thick vein that runs upward from the base of Hank’s cock.

It’s intimate like this, letting himself be touched and nothing else. Hank’s painfully aroused but doesn’t rush, indulging Connor with lazy kisses while he rubs into his smooth palm. The rain still drizzles overhead, Hank drowses with simple pleasures, and it’s not until Connor’s breath catches and his LED spins yellow that he pauses, hand cupped around his partner’s jaw.

“What’s wrong?” Hank asks. He swipes a thumb over Connor’s brow ridge and has just enough marigold light caught between them to see the shadow of his nose and the corner of his mouth. Connor’s lashes dip low, casting spidery shadows across his cheek.

“I’ve never…” he starts to say, voice modulator catching somewhere in his throat. “This is my first time having intercourse, Hank.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Hank breathes out, mortified at the thought that he’d be somebody’s first at this stage in life and achingly hard all at the same time. He never once stops petting Connor’s face, though, tracing around the sculpted shell of his ear. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, smiling because he thinks Connor needs to see it. “We can do whatever you wanna do, Con. It doesn’t have to be—that. Just what you’re comfortable with.”

Connor nods, and when he pulls away Hank feels like he’s been torn in half until he realizes, belatedly, that Connor’s shedding his sleep shirt in the dark. He comes back even closer than he was before, winding their legs together and pressing his mouth somewhere in the warm hinge between Hank’s neck and shoulder.

“Will you make love with me?” he asks, the plain words leaving heat to bloom in Hank’s cheeks and across his chest. “Like this, so I can see you.”

“You wouldn’t be more comfortable anywhere else?” Hank chokes out, and then watches Connor’s temple flicker yellow again before going back to azure as he searches for and finds an answer in the same half-second.

“This should work just fine,” Connor says, lifting his thigh and draping it over Hank’s side, hitched there in place at the knee. He slowly coaxes Hank up and has him lie back down on top of the other one, shushing him with a finger against his lips before Hank can complain. “It doesn’t hurt me,” he says. “I just want to hold you.”

When they’re wrapped around each other in a tangle of limbs, Hank takes his cock in hand and nudges it against Connor’s hole. He could cry just from that, how much they both want it, but presses his forehead to Connor’s while he fists himself inside, pushing his hips up to slide right into that slick heat. It’s a tight fit but Connor is relaxed, clinging to him, thighs spread wide and mouth parting open with a gentle gasp when Hank rolls into him up to the hilt.

Hank’s never done this with any other partner before, but it’s comfortable, soothing in a way even if he can’t fuck Connor with any real finesse beyond the languid, steady roll of his hips. But Connor tips his pelvis up into it, not barred by human flexibility, and wraps his arms around Hank’s neck to kiss him through each thrust, every little hitching breath and moan landing across his lips.

True to Connor’s word, the shifting light of his LED is just enough to see him by. Hank closes his eyes and lets it flicker there behind his lids, hoping this is good, trying with everything he has to make it mean something. There’s a scraped-raw feeling lingering deep in his chest, trying to well up past everything he’d buried it behind. Connor squeezes around his cock and he groans, lightly biting down on the fleshy part of his shoulder.

“You make me feel so full,” Connor whispers, stretched and split in two in the most beautiful way. He cries out when Hank fucks up into him hard enough that his balls slap Connor’s ass, tipping his face close so Hank can feel the wetness there. When he goes in for another kiss the brackish taste of undiluted saline blooms on his tongue.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” Hank asks, going still to try and search Connor’s face through the dark. He can’t see the tears, but when he reaches out with his fingers he can feel them. “Baby, you gotta tell me.”

“No, Hank,” Connor says, voice crumpled and wet-sounding. “I’m far from injured.”

Hank cradles the back of his head and slowly, carefully, maneuvers Connor around onto his back, still sheathed inside. Something shifts and recedes beneath the edge of his pinky and after a moment he recognizes the telltale sensation of warm plastic under his fingers.

At this new angle he sinks ever deeper and they both cry out when it happens, Hank rolling his hips faster now, locked there in the cradle of Connor’s thighs. He braces himself on one elbow and turns Connor’s face into a breathless kiss with the other hand, each thrust punching another tiny sound from his chest. Hank breathes like a bellows but doesn’t stop, trying to pace himself, but Connor feels so good around him that he know this won’t last much longer.

“God, Connor,” he chokes out. “Fuck, sweetheart, you’re gonna be the end of me.”

Connor’s hand has disappeared somewhere between them, jerking himself in matched time alongside Hank’s cock fucking into his hole. His eyes are open wide against the dark, though, the glassiness of them reflected beneath the pale glow from his LED. Hank meets them, then, letting their gazes lock together while they both tumble toward some wide open precipice.

Nobody says anything, at least not anything spoken aloud, but Hank knows. He looks into Connor’s eyes in this moment and can feel it through the love and earnestness shining there, a miracle considering everything else in the room is shrouded in darkness. Everything except Connor.

Hank’s still staring down into Connor’s eyes when he watches him break and come apart, bucking under Hank’s hips as his strong back arches and bows into everything Hank’s giving him. If he says anything, Hank never does hear it, because the divine heat of Connor clenching and fluttering around him sends him right over the edge, and then everything truly does go black as his vision blots out.

When Hank’s breath and body returns to him, gradually but surely, he feels Connor’s fingers in his hair, sweeping damp waves away from his temples. His softening cock hasn’t slipped free from but warm wetness has bloomed between them, already leaking out onto the bed. Hank winces but doesn’t move other than to press a whiskery kiss to the corner of Connor’s mouth instead, tender enough that it makes his throat ache.

“You okay?” he rasps, Connor’s ankles loosely hitched over his calves now. “That sure was something.”

“It was perfect, Hank,” Connor murmurs back, smiling sweetly against Hank’s mouth. “You’re beautiful like this. I couldn’t have imagined how much until now.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys,” Hank teases, dropping another kiss to Connor’s chest as he slowly pulls out and slumps down next to him. He’s too wrung out to even bother with blushing or fighting off the compliment, happy to take it in stride.

He lifts an arm and Connor immediately curls into his chest again, tucking himself firmly against Hank’s side. The room is still pleasantly cool despite the dead air and Hank notices after a few more moments that the rain has stopped almost altogether. Connor’s idly stroking through the hair on his chest and lower belly, not so sly about letting his fingers play with the bud of Hank’s nipples from time to time.

Hank stares at the dark ceiling, breathing easily. “Should we talk about this?” he asks, petting along Connor’s naked hip.

“Not right now,” Connor murmurs, resting his head there on the pillow between Hank’s neck and shoulder. “You should get some sleep. I’ll watch over things while you do.”

He shouldn’t feel as comforted as he does, maybe, but Hank obediently closes his eyes and lets Connor hold him just like that. Thinks about nothing at all but how sated he feels and how glad he is that Connor’s there, and be damned if it’s not the best sleep he’s had in years.  
  
  


* * *  
  
  
  


Early morning light is casting through the sheer curtains when Hank next opens his eyes. He blinks and reaches up to rub sleep from his face, several things slowly dawning upon him one at a time: last night hadn’t been a dream, the power’s miraculously back on now,  
Connor is the most gorgeous thing he’s ever laid eyes on, and he’s woken up with morning wood hard enough to wrap a steel bar around.

“Rest well?” Connor asks where he’s curved along Hank’s side, stretching languidly on top of the sheets. He’s still stark naked, pale and finely muscled, dotted with a thousand moles and freckles from head to foot that Hank’s going to have to commit to memory one by one. The smooth skin on his mound glistens with something tacky that catches in the weak light, and Hank’s cock twitches on its own accord when he realizes it’s trace remnants from the night before.

“Never better,” Hank says, mouth dry and throat a little scratchy, but he smiles and doesn’t mind it too much when Connor tips his face up for a kiss. He looks down at the sheet tenting above his groin and lets out a groan, pressing a hand down to try and flatten it. “Fuck.”

Connor eyeballs the damp spot forming on the cotton above Hank’s cockhead and slowly licks his bottom lip, none too discreetly. “Something occurred to me when I noticed your building arousal,” he says.

Hank groans again, long-suffering. “Oh yeah, hot shot? What’s that?”

“This time, when we make love, I’d like to be inside you.”

Hank nearly chokes on his own tongue, face and throat immediately flushing crimson. Sputters out something incoherent before he can manage, “What?!” and then shortly thereafter, “We didn’t bring anything for _that_.”

“I had good faith you’d be open to the possibility,” Connor says with an impish smile, and then reaches over to pick something up off the bedside table. “I happen to carry medical-grade water soluble lubricant packets with me for ease of biocomponent installation or suturing in an emergency situation.”

Hank squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to let the bubble of hysterical laughter rise in his throat. “Is that supposed to turn me on?” he asks in a pinched voice, even though his dick is hard enough to powder diamonds.

“Maybe,” Connor says lightly, even though his dark eyes shine like beetle wings in the pre-dawn shadows. “Anything I say is mostly superfluous considering how erect you already are.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hank moans. He chances another bold look over at Connor and wonders what the hell he’s gotten himself into. “I know I’m gonna regret asking this, but how…did you think…uh.” A feeble cough. “Damn. Y’know.”

Connor traces his hand lightly down Hank’s belly to his upper thigh, then slips it below the sheet. “I’m perfectly capable of _getting you off_ with just my fingers. It would bring me as much pleasure as it would you, I hope.”

“You seem pretty confident about that.”

Connor smiles. “I did some extensive research about the prostate gland while you were sleeping.”

Hank barks out a laugh, loud and sharp. “You—you’re really serious about this, huh?” The idea alone makes him break out into a clammy sweat, too-hot and sensitive against the sheets. They no longer have the soothing cover of pitch darkness, and while he loves seeing everything Connor has to offer he’s not sure the flip side of that is anything appealing.

“Very serious,” Connor says, gently squeezing the meat of Hank’s upper thigh, and it makes him jump.

“I gotta try and take a leak,” Hank says too fast, bundling himself out of bed despite the stiffness in his knees and lower back. He walks naked to the bathroom and closes the door most of the way, dribbling a few sorry drops of piss as promised before he needlessly flushes and stares himself down in the mirror.

Some cold water splashed on his face helps, but Hank feels slightly panicked. Thinks about washing his ass in a hurry and then questions whether that’s what he really wants or not. Decides after a few moments of contemplation that yes, if you get far enough into it that you debate using hand soap or bar soap to tidy up your basement plumbing, chances are you’re already willing to take your new boyfriend’s fingers up your ass.

_Boyfriend_, Hank silently mouths to himself in the tiny bathroom, scratching through his beard while he ponders the newfound ramifications of that. He looks down at his flagging cock and swears, then turns the warm water tap on and fishes around for a clean washcloth.

When he strides out of the bathroom a couple minutes later, it’s not exactly the best he’s ever felt or looked in his whole life, but he feels mostly braced and ready for whatever comes next.

Connor’s expression goes from doubtful to intrigued when Hank presses one knee back on the bed and sighs, scratching across his gut for lack of anything else. He lets his fingers nervously worry the old scar under his navel, tracing the smooth, pale groove there.

“So, I want to try this,” he says, clearing his throat some. Makes himself meet Connor’s eyes and tries for a smile that wavers a little on one side. “With you. Because I…trust you, Connor.”

Connor’s sitting cross-legged in the bed now, unashamed, not doing much to hide the soft pinkness there at the junction between his legs. Hank swallows, and Connor reaches out to touch his elbow before rising up to press a sweet kiss against Hank’s jaw. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “Come kneel here on the mattress in whatever way you’re most comfortable. I want to take care of you.”

Hank does as he’s told but Connor tuts a bit, gathering up a spare pillow to cushion under his knees. He gets a handful of lubricant and rests a slender arm there in the middle before coaxing Hank down until he’s sitting on it, balls resting a little awkwardly to one side of Connor’s wrist.

“Are you sure—?” he tries to say, mouth gone dry, but Connor only lowers himself onto his stomach, eye level with Hank’s cock, and nods.

“My internal skeletal structure is made of titanium alloy and added flexibility components at all the major joints,” Connor says, gently tracing the crack of Hank’s ass with his middle finger. It’s wet, slightly warm, and makes Hank shiver. “You can’t break me like this.”

Hank’s stomach tightens and Connor presses a kiss to his inner thigh. “Relax, if you can,” he says. “Hopefully it won’t take us long to find your rhythm.”

“I’m ready,” Hank says, splaying his hands above his knees to try and keep himself upright, and breathes out slowly as Connor presses that first finger up into his ass.

It’s been a long time, and it feels—strange. Like a mild intrusion of sorts, even if one finger definitely doesn’t hurt just yet. Hank feels a little bit silly, sitting here with the equivalent of a thumb up his ass, and then Connor leans forward to wrap his lips around the tip of his cock.

“Oof,” he says, some of the tension unwinding as Connor swirls his tongue around the sensitive head. It’s wet and messy but it’s good, and before he can keep wondering how this is gonna go Connor pushes down all at once until Hank’s cock nudges into the back of his throat.

“Fuck!” he gasps in a half-shout, staring down at Connor’s lips nearly stretched down to the base of his shaft. It’s obscene enough that Hank’s brain doesn’t quite know what to make of it all, caught in some stupor where he can’t fathom how he was sitting in Fowler’s office thirty-six hours ago and now he’s got his work partner’s finger knuckle-deep in his hole and a pair of pretty lips sucking him off like it’s going out of style.

Connor adds a second finger, and that’s when Hank stops thinking about much of anything at all.

He’d only ever gotten so far with toys on his own, and the last time he’d tried—well, that had been years ago. This is different. Connor crooks his fingers right up into that tight bundle of nerves that makes Hank buckle forward and fuck into his throat even if won’t take him much deeper, like he’d known right where to hunt for it with laser precision. If it was up to Connor, Hank’s prostate probably had a bullseye painted on it since the moment they kissed on the goddamn dock.

“Let yourself sink down into it, darling,” Connor says, clear as a bell, which honestly freaks Hank the fuck out until he realizes Connor’s vocal components don’t need air and vibration to work. He tries to spread his thighs a little more, letting himself drop down onto Connor’s wrist until his ass is flush with the knuckles on the android’s right hand.

“That’s it,” Connor says, and then tightens something in his throat that makes Hank see stars. “You’re gorgeous, Hank. I wish you could see for yourself.”

Before the third finger stretches him open, Hank manages to look down and notice something he’d only felt the night before, sight unseen. There are splotches of clean white shining through on Connor’s neck and shoulder where Hank has been mindlessly pawing at him, synth-skin mottled away to expose his chassis underneath. He blinks some of the haze from his eyes and touches it with care, fingertips grazing the smooth plastic.

Connor trembles when Hank’s thumb brushes the faintest seam at the base of his skull, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. “Will you do something for me?” he asks, and it sounds breathless even though he’s not drawn a single simulated breath in the past ten minutes. “If I—if I open myself up, will you touch me there?”

Now’s not really the time to have this conversation, Hank knows, when he’s riding the hard edge of something too close to the fire, but then again—maybe it’s the perfect time. “Sweetheart, I’ll do anything,” he rasps, shallowly fucking into Connor’s mouth while burning heat flares low in his pelvis. “Just so long as you don’t stop.” 

That’s all it takes for the panel on Connor’s neck to slide open and reveal a delicate hatch of wires and mesh overlaid on what must be more titanium. Hank looks at it and lets out a steep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It doesn’t look so bad, especially with a faint blue glow emanating from some deeper mechanism he can’t see.

“C-Connor,” Hank says, voice cracking some. “Tell me what to do. I don’t—fuck, honey, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me unless you purposefully sever something, and even then it won’t be permanent,” Connor says after sliding off long enough to lick a hot stripe up Hank’s shaft. He briefly looks up with those doe eyes, tinted amber in the rising daylight coming through the curtains now, and then ducks his head again. “Anything you do would be pleasurable—I just want to feel you.”

“Okay,” Hank breathes, letting his fingers trace the edge of the open panel. They’re shaking some but he tries to focus despite being stimulated on three sides, carefully stroking a few of the colored wires within. He doesn’t expect much, but the effect is instantaneous—Connor moans like a whore around his cock and his throat contracts again, squeezing.

“Oh shit,” Hank hisses, bracing his other hand in the middle of Connor’s back as he curves over. “Fuck, Con.” He keeps his other hand in the wires as promised, and it’s a miracle among miracles that he doesn’t tear something loose inside himself or Connor when a third slicked finger slides up into his ass.

“Hank,” Connor says, sounding vaguely strained but not letting up for one second. “Deeper, please.”

“I’ll say,” Hank croaks, and plunges his fingers down through the wires until he can rub the heated mesh, stroking Connor there like he would the slick heat between his legs.

Hank had nearly laughed, before, when Connor said this would be another act of lovemaking. But now, flushed and panting, rocking down onto Connor’s hand like he’ll never have enough, never get enough, he wonders. Connor’s mouth is like a gentle dream around his cock and every time his fingers press just-so Hank lets out a low keen from somewhere deep in his chest, some primal sound he never knew he could make, muscles trembling as he barrels toward an ending he never would’ve expected.

“Oh,” he pants, fucking himself on those three fine fingers with as much feeble strength as he’s got left in his burning legs, fingers digging into the back of Connor’s neck. Tears are gathering at the corners of his eyes but he doesn’t care anymore, couldn’t be bothered even if an army of men came crashing into this room. “Darlin’, oh my god—fuck, _fuck, _Connor—I’m not gonna last.”

Connor must sense something similar because he draws off Hank’s cock, a long spidery string of slobber falling from between his lips, and shoves his face into the musky heat between Hank’s belly and thigh. “You don’t have to, Hank,” he says, tongue darting out for a taste there, shuddering as Hank’s pinky tugs at a fine green wire. “You can let go whenever you’re ready.”

It’s like wildfire, like Hank’s got to piss for a thousand years but can’t, like wave after wave is trying to break through some barrier deep inside him. Connor’s fingers pry him open and hit that spot one last time, unrelenting, and when Hank comes he thinks he screams. His untouched cock pulses and doesn’t stop, half-limp but still sending thick ropes of pearly spend all over Connor’s shoulder and the sheets underneath.

He sobs, hunched over and still with a broad hand planted in the middle of Connor’s back, halfway crushing him into the bed. Hank’s knees aren’t doing much to keep him upright anymore but Connor doesn’t stop, milking every last ounce of pleasure from his body.

Tears are in his beard and dropping down onto Connor’s skin and bare chassis before he realizes he’s crying. Not a gentle, picturesque cry—heaving gasps, so much they hurt, and Hank’s still trying to save face even through his blurred vision.

“M’sorry,” he chokes out, pulling the hand in Connor’s neck panel away to mop around his eyes. “I’m fine—I just. _Fuck._”

Connor’s movements gentle themselves and slow, letting Hank catch his breath. His neck closes itself back up and the synth-skin moves into place, and then he slowly pulls his fingers out of Hank’s used hole, both of them shuddering when he’s empty again.

“We’re a fucking mess,” Hank says, trying to laugh, and can hardly rise up on his knees to free Connor’s arm. He slumps down into the bed and lays there, hands coming up to cover his face. “Jesus Christ. What’s wrong with me.”

“You did so well,” Connor says, lying next to him and kissing Hank’s knuckles until a bleary eye cracks open to peer out at him. He pulls a blanket up over them, crooked but good enough for now, and looks like he’d just witnessed the birth of a star. “You were stunning, Hank. Exquisite in every sense of the word.”

Hank grumbles under his breath but lets his hands fall away from his face, reaching out to pull Connor forward into a kiss. It’s chaste compared to what they just finished doing with each other, but he needs it. His eyes are still sore from crying so hard and suddenly, but maybe that feeling in itself is a relief.

“The only _exquisite_ thing I know about is whatever you just did to me,” Hank says, tiredly kissing a mole by Connor’s nose and then the ride below his eyebrow. “Holy hell, kid. Could make a career out of that if I didn’t want to keep it all for myself.”

That statement settles between them, something warm and unexpectedly hopeful that makes Connor’s eyes brighten. “I’d like to do this with you all the time, Hank,” he says. “As much as we can—whenever you want.”

“You’re literally gonna put me in the ground,” Hank says, but kisses him again and nods, letting out a shaky breath. “We can do that.”

There’s still a terrible case to get back to on Monday, and paperwork to do, and errands to run, and fuck knows what else that Hank’s not looking forward to. But he looks forward to Connor being there, and he looks forward to—all this. Whatever it is they’ve got strung between them now, built up on top of what was already there.

He feels good about it. Good enough that he knows now’s not the time to question things or kick up any old inner turmoil about what he does and doesn’t deserve, because at least he knows what it is he wants.

“Do you think our weekend was well spent?” Connor asks, infinitely gorgeous as light from the window drapes over Hank’s shoulder and splashes gold on his face.

They’re both sticky, disgusting, and Hank may not be able to sit straight at his desk for the next fortnight, but he can’t think of a weekend he’s had that came close to touching this one in ages. Not a drop of liquor or a single wayward glance at his gun. And to think it’s not even over yet.

“Baby, we’ve still got a full day ahead of us,” he says, closing his eyes and basking in the gentle ease of whatever comes next. “Probably won’t want to leave tomorrow.”

“We can come back another time,” Connor says, snuggling closer. “I’ll book out every other weekend until off season, if you want.”

“Hold your horses on that one, tiger,” Hank says, quiet laughter rumbling in his chest. “Jeff may get testy if we put a monopoly on his secret honey hole on Portage Lake.”

Connor ponders that, LED briefly flickering yellow. “I think I may owe him a complementary fruit and wine basket,” he says after a moment. “If it weren’t for the Captain’s suggestion we wouldn’t be here together right now.”

“He makes one hell of a matchmaker, huh,” Hank grunts, grown so tired again that he can barely stand to open his eyes. “If he did that on purpose I’ll still have to bust his balls for it later.”

“You and I have very different ways of expressing our opinions and appreciation,” Connor muses, voice tickling at Hank’s collarbone now that he’s resumed his breathing subroutine. “That’s part of what I love most about you, Hank.”

Hank hears that word and feels his throat ache, just a little. Maybe Connor didn’t fully understand what he was saying, but Hank knows he’s telling himself a lie. Connor knows everything.

“What I love a whole lot about you,” he says, not caring in the least if it comes out a little lopsided and shaky on one side, “is that you’re always right.”

Connor kisses Hank full on the mouth, smiling like the sun. “Not always,” he murmurs there. “Only most of the time.”

Hank well and truly believes it. 

  
  
  
  
* * *

  
  
  
  
The next afternoon, when a dusty Oldsmobile and its two passengers have finally loaded up and rumbled off toward Detroit, the dock on Portage Lake doesn’t belong to just Bill and Judy anymore. The plank next to them has been freshly but crudely carved, not with a pocketknife but with the sharp edge of a key. Still, anybody who happened upon it would be able to see the new heart scratched there on the scarred wood.

_H & C, ‘39_   
  



End file.
